


In which Artur (Apprentice Thief) quits his job

by Volts



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Attempt at Humor, F/M, M/M, Multi, POV Outsider
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-23
Updated: 2020-06-23
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:00:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24882730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Volts/pseuds/Volts
Summary: “Who here, in this tavern, is the last person you’d mess with? The last person you’d even consider robbing?” Uncle asked.Artur gulped. He hated this job.xArtur (disillusioned apprentice thief) just wants to eat his meal in peace. Uncle Pawel thinks this is the perfect time for an inpromptu lesson.xThe Witcher, Mage, and Bard are oblivious to Artur's plight.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 14
Kudos: 277





	In which Artur (Apprentice Thief) quits his job

**Author's Note:**

> Ok, so this wouldn't leave my brain. 
> 
> I wrote this with Tony Robinson-reading-Discworld's voice in mind, so if you know that voice try and imagine it in that tone.
> 
> This is supposed to be amusing, but I doubt it is.
> 
> Also I did barely any proof reading of this so. Yeah.

Artur sat awkwardly in the corner of the tavern, waiting for his uncle to return from the bar.

Today had been fairly busy. They’d been pickpocketing in the town square. Something nice and easy that involve threatening someone with a sword.

He wasn’t yet sure of his uncle’s profession. Professional Thief didn’t seem like the best job he could have. So far he’d not been great at it, but what was left for him back home? Raking the Duke’s fields till his back gave in like Dad? At least with Uncle Pawel he got to see the world.

Uncle came back to the table with two ales and two bowls of broth.

Artur fell upon his share.

“Now Artur, don’t lose concentration. Mealtimes are when we pick out our next mark. Now let’s see what you’ve learned,” Uncle was balding, middle aged, and had had most of his teeth knocked out by a Baron’s guard when he hadn’t been much older than Artur. Not a great advertisement to his profession.

Artur tried to look less like a boy put on the spot and more like a dutiful apprentice.

“So, boy, why are mealtimes a good time to pick targets?”

“Uh.” There was a bard playing, loudly, in the taproom, rattling any concentration Artur may have had.

“Uh, they… relax… more?”

“Good. Good, and...?”

“They put their weapons to one side, so you know how they’re armed. And, and they have to get their purses out to pay the barkeep?”

“ _Very_ good,” Uncle looked pleased, “Now, look around. Who here has money, but would be easy to rob?”

A hot flush of panic went through Artur. Oh dear. Oh gods.

“Uh,” he hastily looked around. Not the soldiers at the bar. Nor the white-haired chap with the longswords. Uh…

There was a party of silk traders in the corner.

“The merchants?” he stuttered.

Uncle sighed, “Usually yes, Merchants are a good mark. But look -” Uncle pointed.

Artur eventually noticed two of the ‘merchants’ looked more like hired muscle on a second glance.

“Oh right. Uh, well. What about -”Artur looked past the brightly coloured bard, not him – bard’s earned a pittance, “- those -” he pointed to a group of well dressed, well fed, men in the other corner.

“No not them. See that chain, that’s the royal crest. We rob them and suddenly we won’t just be losing hands if caught. He’s most likely the King’s steward or some’at.”

Artur sat back, dejected. He could, he supposed, grow to like harvesting wheat. Mam would be disappointed, of course.

Seeing his nephew dejected, Pawel broke the musing, “Well why don’t we try another lesson?”

Oh no.

“Who here, in this tavern, is the last person you’d mess with? The last person you’d even consider robbing?” Uncle asked.

Artur sat up, gulping. He could do that.

Probably.

He hated this job.

He looked around again.

The soldiers had left. He could point to the man with the royal crest but knowing Uncle he wouldn’t have asked a question with an easy answer, besides he had something worth stealing, same with the merchants.

No, the _last_ person would be someone with no, or little, money and the prospect of extreme violence…

“Why, you Uncle!” Artur said, mostly joking but also hoping to be let off the hook.

“Nice try, boy,” Uncle said dryly, “Try again.”

Shit. At least if he went home, he could ask Greta to the next solstice dance. Eat some of his Mam’s apple cake.

His eyes went back to the white-haired man with the longsword. Long _swords,_ two of them. And a wolf medallion with eyes like a cat… A Witcher.

Artur gulped. His Mam used to tell him the Witchers would take him away if he didn’t come home in time for supper. He was about to blurt out the answer but stopped himself. It couldn’t be that easy…

The Witcher was watching the bard intently, with a blank expression. The bard was smiling at the room, winking and flirting to just about everyone who looked at him. The barmaid was leaning on the bar, head in her hand, staring at him dreamily.

Artur sighed, and looked back to the Witcher. Armed to the teeth, literally, and they could do magic, couldn’t they? Set people on fire and … things? Then he noticed the woman sitting next to The Witcher, also watching the bard with interest.

She was the most captivating woman he’d ever seen. Dressed in a black dress with white sleeves, black hair cascading over her shoulders. There’s a star pendant at her throat…

Is she a witch? Artur had never met one but he’d heard that proper ones, ones that went to fancy schools – not healers like Old Margie – were cursed to look young and beautiful. Mam said they sucked the life out of livestock to keep the ravages of Old Father Time at bay.

So.

The Witch or the Witcher.

She didn’t _look_ armed. In fact she looked injured, burn scars all over the backs of her hands, around her wrists, disappearing under her blouse.

“The Witcher,” he decided.

“Good choice. But not the most dangerous, I fancy,” Uncle said.

“The Witch then,” Artur said, desperately.

“Well spotted! And again, good choice. She’d be third after the Witcher, no mistake. That there is the mage who burnt Sodden to a crisp,” how Uncle knew these things, Artur didn’t know, “and she’d be second if she were at full power.”

“How do you _know_ these things?”

“Rumours walk fast in our business,” Uncle said without answering anything. Would it kill him to be less cryptic?

“But no. The last person you’d want to attack is The Bard.”

The Bard?

Artur looked at the bard. Brown hair. Blue eyes. About 6ft tall. He looked like a normal, dandified, lower ranking, disgraced, noble, who had reduced himself to practically _begging._

True he looked like there was some decent muscle under the fancy clothes and he was about as tall and broad as Uncle. ( _But in better shape_ , the small voice disinterested in professional thievery noted traitorously.)

But. It couldn’t be the bard?!

He wasn’t armed. He had no longsword at his back or hip. Nor did he look very magical.

“Why him?” Artur asked, incredulous and annoyed. His uncle must be pulling his leg.

“Look at the way The Witcher and The Mage are guarding him. That bard is Jaskier of Oxenfurt. The Witcher’s bard. Rumour is that he has them in some sort of thrall. He sings these songs about them, you’ve heard Toss-a-coin, right, and that new one about a Sorceress with pretty eyes who burned down an entire army? That’s _him._ You try and steal from him and they’ll send you to your maker, before you can say your prayers.”

Artur look at the trio, because of course it was a trio. 3 pairs of eyes who couldn’t take their eyes off each other.

Artur shivered.

“Also,” Uncle continued, “your Uncle Markus tried robbing him last summer. Ended up with a dagger in his stomach. Nasty buggers’ bards are. Hardly any money and armed to the teeth.”

Armed?

Artur took a fourth? look at the bard. There was a knife in his boot. A suggestion of dagger’s up each sleeve. Was that a brass knuckle tucked under the armpit of his doublet?

Artur gave up. (Missing the garrotting wire around the bard’s waist, the second boot-knife, and the spring-released poisoned boot blade.)

“Right,” he said morosely.

The bard finished performing to cheers from the crowd. Twin fond smiles from both the Witcher and the Mage, who shifted over in their booth to allow him to sit between them. The Witcher gave him an affectionate knock of the shoulder. The Witch laughed as the Bard leaned to whisper in her ear.

It was clear anyone robbing the three of them stood no chance. The love radiated from the three of them like a campfire.

Artur sighed.

He missed his Mam. He missed Greta.

Tomorrow, tomorrow, he was going home.


End file.
